"Somebody better answer it,” Mrs. Becky suggested, calm and cool as ever.
That started a stampede. The sheriff got there first because he was nearest but there were seven pairs of ears crammed as close to that receiver as they could get. The only people hanging back were Etheline, who was glancing all around as if she didn't quite recognize what room she was in, and Mrs. Becky, who was still pretending that she never answered telephones. I didn't hang back myself, not as much as I wanted to hear who was calling.
"Hello?” says the sheriff.
"Are you ready to join me?” croaked a nervous, wispy voice on the other end of the line. “The time is at . . ."
I didn't get to hear the rest of what the caller had to say because just then Etheline screeched, “Is she asking for me? Tell her I'm coming."
And from the folds of her shawl she pulled out a small silver flask and started to unscrew its cap with a shaky, withered hand. She never got a chance to raise it to her lips though. Mrs. Becky caught her by the wrist before she could get it there. Taking a whiff of the flask, she made a face and announced, “Here's your murderer. And here's your rat poison too.” She held up the flask she'd taken away from Miss Etheline, who at the moment had covered her face with her hands and was whimpering. “Everyone knows she was always offering to share her nerve medicine. You weren't arguing with anyone over the telephone, were you Etheline? Something tells me you were arranging to have your nephew bring a dose of your medicine to friends who were having trouble sleeping after being telephoned by a ghost that sounded an awful lot like you, if someone was to listen instead of trying to talk."
So I had been right! Partly, anyway. It had been Miss Etheline. I just hadn't figured out all the particulars. Much as I hate to admit it, the sheriff had stumbled over some of the answer, too, though by my reckoning, not as much of it as I had. If you can't quite picture how Sheriff Huck took his missus's revelations, let me help. He laughed, and it wasn't a pretty laugh, either, but a mean, toothy, don't-be-foolish sort that fell on deaf ears because everyone was watching Perry Woodley bend down beside his aunty to ask what she'd done. Sounding more than a little surprised, the old lady answered, “Why, I'll need someone to talk to in the hereafter, won't I?"
* * * *
We lost nearly all our ghosts that night. People quit believing there had ever been a phantom night watchman at the lumberyard, and more than one citizen came around to thinking that the cavalry captain on the white stallion was only Reverend Scrim coming home from comforting a member of his flock, though I had me some doubts about that, knowing how much the sheriff likes to dress up in old uniforms from that steamer trunk of his. Word got around too that Lady Small could almost hit a high C, which did away with anyone mentioning the ghost of the opera singer ever again, unless trying to scare someone new in town.
Rutherford Dewitt sealed any further talk about his two ghosts by selling his drug emporium to the railroad and moving west. About the same time the graveyard got awfully quiet too. I'm guessing that was because Alfreda Scrim moved on to arranging her church's gala Christmas festivities.
That left only the spirit of Etheline Spavin's mother to haunt our little town, and no one ever noticed that ghost after the following spring's flood, which swept the widow's walk and everything beneath it away in a swirl of brown water. I was making rounds the night it happened and have to report that the last I saw of the mansion was a cloaked figure standing atop it and waving farewell. Or at least I think that's what I saw. And the river swallowed it.
You don't need to worry about Etheline though. She'd already been moved to a mental hospital by then. I heard she made quite a fuss until her nephew suggested they try giving her a private telephone line. It didn't matter that it wasn't hooked up to anything. Etheline could hear her friends just fine.
So now we're down to two telephones in town—Alfreda Scrim's and Mrs. Becky's, and they don't bother talking to each other, never have. But lately word has gotten around that Sheriff Huck is considering having a telephone installed at the jail, in case people need him for an emergency. That rumor got its wings while everyone was buzzing about how the sheriff's wife had solved the telephone murders, as they've become known in these parts.
It turned out it was Mrs. Becky who put Archibald Dewitt up to calling us at the stroke of midnight to flush out the culprit. Sharp as that thinking was, there're some who have been mentioning that maybe it's high time for Marquis to elect a woman sheriff. Mrs. Becky may be considering it too, or at least Archibald Dewitt says so. He's clerking over at the general store now and seems to know a good deal about what the sheriff's wife thinks. I can't disagree with his judgment on the matter. Something tells me that she might be pretty good at arresting people. If she does decide to run for office, I'm not exactly sure who I'll be voting for. Maybe I'll just write my own name on the ballot, in case there's a tie.
Copyright © 2011 Joe Helgerson
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Department: THE STORY THAT WON
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© 2010, by Mark F. Russell
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The November Mysterious Photograph contest was won by Belinda Stoner of Cincinnati, Ohio. Honorable mentions go to Rebecca R. Butler of St. Simons Island, Georgia; James Hagerty of Melbourne, Florida; Marie A. Heath of Westminster, Massachusettes; Greg Matejek of Hillsborough, New Jersey; Dave St. Hilaire of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada; Darla Bartos of Littleton, Colorado; and Warren Bull of Kansas City, Missouri.
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RUSTIC GETAWAY
Belinda Stoner
My Brownies and I reached the end of the path leading to our cabins. “Rustic” was a genereous description; “decrepit” was more accurate. I regretted waiting until the last minute to reserve our campsite.
As my Brownies regarded their weekend accommodations, I worried that they might burst into tears. Finally, Harriet, the unofficial leader, spoke up. “Awesome!” she proclaimed, and all eight began eagerly exploring.
Later, as we organized our gear, we were startled when a man approached. “Cal Evans,” he introduced himself, “camp ranger. You passed my house on the way in. I'll be around all weekend if you need anything."
"He reminds me of someone,” Harriet noted as he left, removing her BlackBerry from her pack.
"No BlackBerries or video games,” I reminded her, confiscating it. “We are here to appreciate nature!"
Eight hours later, I awoke to the sounds of a scuffle. I grabbed a flashlight, stumbled from my cabin, and saw all eight girls surrounding a trussed figure on the ground.
"He can't get away,” Harriet assured me as I gazed in horror at Ranger Evans, bound in an assortment of belts and jump ropes. “We used square knots!"
"Girls! I'm sure he was just checking on us!"
"Nope. He's not even Ranger Evans,” Harriet explained, thrusting her BlackBerry at me. The screen displayed a photo of the man on the ground. bank robbery suspect sought, the caption read.
I beamed at my Brownies, happy they'd worked so hard at learning those square knots.
Copyright © 2011 Belinda Stoner
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Department: COMING IN JUNE 2011
MARLEY'S REVOLUTION by John C. Borland
DARK HORIZONS by Rex Burns
WORK LOVERS by K. J. Egan
MAIN SQUEEZE by Elaine Viets
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Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (ISSN:0002-5224), Vol. 56, No. 5, May 2011. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. Annual subscription $55.90 in the U.S.A. and possessions, $65.90 elsewhere, payable in advance in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Subscription orders and correspondence regarding subscriptions should be sent to 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Or, to subscribe, call 1-800-220-7443. Editorial Offices: 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, NY 10007-2352. Executive Offices: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. © 2011 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. The stories in this magazine are all fictitious, and any resemblance between the characters in them and actual persons is completely coincidental. Reproduction or use, in any manner, of editorial or pictorial content without express written permission is prohibited. Submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. POSTMASTER: Send changes to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: Quad/Graphics Joncas, 4380 Garand, Saint-Laurent, Quebec H4R 2A3. GST #R123054108.
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